The Athens Earthquake
by TheLaziestWriter
Summary: Turkey cares for Greece, who suffered from the 6.4 earthquake that struck his capital and became ill, to reciprocate the help he had received when the earthquake of Izmit struck. Turkey/Greece fluff, minor swearing. - Note: The results of the aftermaths of the Izmit earthquake and the Athens earthquake in 1999 greatly improved Greco-Turkish relations, or the Earthquake Diplomacy.


**The Athens Earthquake**

"Oy, sit up and drink some water, Heracles," says the Turkish man, who sits beside Greece on his bed with a glass of water in hand. The earthquake in Athens had made Greece succumb to illness. Although his own earthquake was more catastrophic, the disaster damaged the capital of his state, Greece's heart. Turkey wished to repay the help he had received from Greece when the earthquake of Izmit occurred not long before the earthquake struck Athens. Caring for Greece is the least he could do.

Greece does not sit upright, finding the task too exerting to do so. He feels achy and stuffy, and his fever's sweat rolls down his temples. Those pretty green eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, and a sickly red flush is messily painted on his face. Greece turns his back to Turkey and curls into a loose ball, groaning and hoisting his comforting blanket over himself. Heracles should never fall ill; he is so pathetic, muses Sadiq with pity.

"C'mon," coaxes Turkey, laying his free hand onto his shoulder. "I'm just tryin' ta help ya." Gently he urges Greece to lay on his back, and the younger nation slowly complies. With Turkey's support, Greece is able to sit upright against his plush pillows within a few seconds. Turkey threads his gloved hand through the brunette hair upon the back of his head, tilting him forward. He presses the rim of the glass of water to Greece's lips, and he tells him to drink.

Greece drinks the water gratefully, but the liquid irritates his sore throat. His throat is not the only part of his body that is hurting, but his upset stomach, the subtle heaving of his chest, and his throbbing head, too. Greece pulls away from the glass as he finishes the beverage, and he sighs, breathy and hard. He brings up a hand to lightly push the cup away, and Turkey understands to set aside the glass onto the Greek's nightstand.

Sadiq, with a surprising amount of care and tenderness, rubs Heracles's head and strokes his hair. Heracles does not object to the touch, and he closes his eyes, ever so tired. "You . . . called me by my name."

Turkey blinks. "Uh, yeah. I guess I did." What an odd thing for Greece to say.

Greece shifts to lie down on the bed as he coughs, and Turkey allows him to do so, removing his hand to rest upon his hot forehead. Through his glove he could feel the warmth of his frowns, expression grim. Turkey stands from the younger's bed, and the mattress rebounds from his weight. He scratches his chin in thought before he speaks, "I'll getcha some medicine—'n more water too, I guess."

The older man does not catch Greece's weak scowl when the word "medicine" is uttered. The thought of that processed raspberry taste makes his stomach queasy. Greece throws his blankets over his head and groans, sniffling as he hates his life. Passing footsteps are what Greece hears as they leave his bedroom, so he assumes the other man is going to invade his private medicine cabinet in his bathroom. He rolls his tired, sore eyes. He does not need medicine; he needs a night's worth of rest and sleep.

A few minutes and cursing later, an irate Turk returns with a bottle of liquid, a teaspoon, and another tall glass of water. The Greek nation pokes his head out of the blankets. Oh. That isn't the raspberry-flavored one; that medicine is actually the liquid which is poison-flavored. Perhaps Greece is being rather hyperbolic, but he greatly detests _that_ particular bottle. The feline-adoring nation hides under the covers with a soft murmur of refusal, unheard by the Turk.

"Yer house is a frickin' puzzle; took me awhile ta find yer cabinet—thought it'd be 'n the kitchen," says the Turk as he sits beside Greece on his bed once more, sinking from his weight.

From sheer curiosity, Greece pushes the blankets off his head to stare at the man. "Why . . . would my medicine . . . be in the kitchen?"

Turkey scratches his stubbled chin after he sets the glass of water on the Greek's bedside table and responds, "I'unno. Mine is in the kitchen, but ya already know that."

This is true; Greece had to assist Turkey when the Izmit Earthquake caused him to become ill. Sure, perhaps he didn't like the Turk at the time, but it would be wrong as a human being to not aid him. Greece remembers how pathetic he sounded and how concerned he was for the deaths of so many Turkish people. Though he knew how much the older nation hated the taste of any medicines, he endured the liquid without a single complaint. Greece frowns and his stomach painfully clenches. He decides he would not complain either—if not for Turkey's temperament, then for the sake of Greeks.

"Do ya need help sittin' up again?" Turkey interrupts him from his thoughts.

Greece stubbornly shakes his head, slightly pushing the covers further away from himself. He tries hard to collect himself onto his arms, but they quiver due to his illness. The Turk's eyes widen with his concern and quickly he places a large supporting palm onto his back. "'Ey, I know yer a tough guy 'n all, but don't be stupid. Yer capital was hit with a six-point-four earthquake, remember?"

The younger nation does not remember his former master to be so gentle or considerate, and Turkey cannot distinguish the difference between an embarrassed blush from a sickly red flush. Soon Greece sits against his plush pillows once more, and he stares at the medicine within the masked man's hands.

Turkey screws the cap off the green bottle and says, "Even as a kid ya hated meds. It was kinda funny how yer face'd scrunch up as if all the moussaka in the world spoiled." Turkey takes the teaspoon and carefully pours a sufficient amount for Greece to consume. "Ahh! Can't wait to see yer face like that again!" He laughed sadistically.

"Bastard," the sick brunette gripes.

"Oy, be nice! I'm only tryin' ta help ya. If ya take your meds, I'll letcha sleep."

" . . . I was going to do that anyway." The Greek shakes his head, lips pursed. Turkey's brows rise at Greece's peculiar behavior, and carefully he guides the spoon of liquid to settle on his bottom lip. The younger man half-heartedly glares at him, and said man returns that look. The Greek deeply exhales from his nose and parts open his lips.

He swallows the medicine as quickly as possible despite the fact he has a terribly sore throat and still he could taste it so his face contorts in disgust. He hears Turkey's throaty laugh, but Greece does not care as much as he should. There is a slight smile playing on his lips as the other's joy is contagious, yet Greece does not realize this. His pretty green eyes follow the teaspoon as the silver is sat on his nightstand, he nearly flinches as a handle settles into his messy hair.

As Turkey strokes his hair he says, "I think sleep will be good for ya, Hera'." Turkey removes his hand and lifts from his bed, and, like before, the mattress rebounds from his weight. The masked Turkey leaves him to his peace.

Greece breathes quietly as he slides down to lay on his bed. He slowly brought the covers over his aching body to his chin. He closes his sore eyes, and he is silent enough to be able to listen to his own heartbeat. He tries his best to ignore the pain in his throat and his chest. There is a warmth in the room of hazy whiteness, and he finds it easy to softly lull into light slumber.

One last thing is uttered by the Grecian before he falls asleep, "Sadiq."


End file.
